Hello Stranger
by WrittenInCrayon
Summary: AU: With a dark past and an even foggier future Will Schuester begins his journey home in Barambleberry house for children. It's here, surrounded by the crumbling walls of his childhood and letters to a stranger so familiar, that he meets the wonderfully quirky Emma Pillsbury, and suddenly, home doesn't feel quite so far away.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi readers! Thank you for stumbling onto this fic! This is an AU story so the characters are very OCC but the characters we all know and love will definitely be coming in from time to time. Anyway I hope you enjoy it! **_**:)**_

Hello.

I'm not too sure where to start, seeing as I'm not sure what to call you, in fact it's taken me a while to even decide on "hello" seeing as we hardly know each other. Or don't at all. If it makes you feel any better if Mrs. Henderson has her way, (and she always does), I'll soon be greeting you with "my most wonderful friend" or whatever the informal significant is. For now I'll greet you the way I find most appropriate, and carry on the way I began, because it's common knowledge that changing along the way only irritates and annoys; it causes more problems than it's worth so I tend to carry on the way I always have. So here it is; a formal introduction; the most appropriate greeting.

In school we've been learning to use a thesaurus as often as possible and yet I'm not too sure how the words I've come to know can be used in everyday conversation, or, how using them would result in anything more than my partner in conversation to pull out their own thesaurus so that they can fully understand. In my mind the whole thing seems a total waste of time which I'd rather spend doing other things. Recently I've had reason to question whether in fact it is as pointless as it seems, though I guess that at least when I write to you I can use the language I've learnt without worry, you are, after all, only a stranger.

I'm not sure what to tell you really. I doubt you'd care for my name as it means little more than a title to call me by... And if all goes well you won't need to know me by so little as a word. And seeing as I've already messed up the introducing part of this letter I see little point in redeeming myself now.

I can tell you that I'm a lover of classic rock and chocolate chip cookies and that'd tell you a lot more than my name would. So that's me, the stranger who loves good music and sweet deserts. I'd prefer it if you knew me so simply rather than with a defining one worded name that means nothing. You'd probably also like to know that I like my words to mean something even if no one reads. Which is why I even agreed to write to you, no offence.

You see most people I know are strangers. Most people I don't know are too. I'd like to know someone; I'd like to know what makes them laugh and what makes them cry; I'd like to find someone who won't change through time. And who won't leave me. I figured if you're never really here you can never really leave... Sometimes I wonder why we risk life for death, when it could all be over in a heartbeat. You probably think I'm dead depressing, but the fact is that I have reason to be, maybe one day I'll have reason to believe life is more than a beginning and an end; written in black and white. I hope there's more than what I know, but I won't think it that way when there's no reason to.

Oh right, I forgot to tell you why I'm writing this... Well it's a long story actually. One which I'd love to tell but that'd waste far too much ink. So I'll just say that it was my social worker Mrs. Henderson's idea.

You see I'm only telling you her name because there's little else to say. She's a particular old woman; round faced with pointedly beady eyes that I still can't work out the colour of, and though she smiles a slightly yellow grimace I don't know who she's kidding... Even her equally sour faced colleagues can see past her lies, though they're either too scared or too selfish to care.

Her round cheeks glow a desperate crimson, as if she's constantly embarrassed... perhaps by her dress sense, which is the most ridiculous of sorts; dreary, tired colours that show no remnants of life hang lifelessly on her shapeless form, almost as sad to be worn as they are to be seen. I'm pretty sure she gets dressed in the dark and some days I pray to god she does and that's not just what she chooses to wear...

She talks about rock&roll and "The King" as if she's a close friend of the fifties, (though I doubt she has any other friends...), and as if time has not in fact moved on simply because she won't... Because I'm sure it must be easier to tell herself that she is in fact still a girl and not a discreetly aged prune, (I'm sure more wrinkles lie beneath layers of coloured powder), and that if she turns on the radio she'll hear "rock around the clock" and not some annoying pop number I'm sure I've heard at least a thousand times today... (Like I said I'm more one for classic rock). But that's not the truth; I'm sure she knows that deep down and that's why she chooses to help people like me, teenagers whose pitiful lives make hers seem just a little bit less tragic.

She's one of those people who need an entire page of description, or her definitive name. Like I said; she's a particular old woman.

It was this grimacing hag who suggested I write to you; she said I needed to better my communication skills and in doing so express myself creativity, (simply because I accidentally set the shed on fire she thinks I'm a "troubled child"). She suggested I fill in the address randomly and send the letter to have "fun"... She even said she'd pay for the stamps... And so here I am, sat in the only quiet spot in this crumbling house, or out of this crumbling house; under the old sycamore tree and the darkening sky, breaking rule number one of any person's childhood; talking to strangers. But you see I'm not any person; I'm this person; with a childhood so deranged it missed the basics of care and sense.

However I see little pleasure in writing to someone who won't read my words. Or who will but won't see them; I see as much point in that as in the useless words I discovered in the thesaurus. And I see nothing as random anyway so it's pointless to say the word for the sake of this letter. I sent it anyway, or I will have by the time you read this, but I'm sure that goes without saying. Because like I said I'd rather write something meaningful with no one to read than say something useless to a crowd of roaring fans, (as many of the people I know choose to do; in this I find teachers much like those they teach: most seem not to care what rubbish falls from their lips if it's gathered by a listener with admiration in their stare).

I'm sure at least that there's one person who's different; that there's one person who won't listen, because they hear me loud and clear. I know that if you're that someone you'll be worth this letter and a thousand others, whoever you are, wherever you are; you might be closer than I know but this is the one way to find out. Because I know if you hear me you're worth every drop of wasted ink and every useless word I can never use; because right now I just need someone to listen, and I need someone to hear.

I guess in a way I've always been stranded on an dessert island, and finally I'm sending the world signals of distress, and hoping hopelessly that this bottled letter will be a loud enough cry for help, but knowing its more likely the world's as deaf as they are blind.

Because most people aren't like me. I'm not especially special, or maybe that's what makes me so. Whoever I am I'm no one you haven't met before. But we just don't know each other that well yet.

So I guess a good place to start is... With an appropriate greeting, disrupted in a way that's so familiar this could be home; finally,

Hello stranger.

"You know smoking is bad for you..." A soft voice interrupted my thoughts and the yellow lighter I'd been toying with the idea of putting to use, fell from my hand in a second of panic.  
A mumble of incoherent curses tumbled from my lips and I turned to glare at the old tree tiredly, finding nothing more than the faces of ageing green leaves amongst branches that weave and wind in a dance so crazy, that the tree is simply impossible to climb. I sighed to myself, thinking the sound an echo of my continence and reached back down to retrieve my lighter from the ground when the unmistakable sound of rustling leaves caused me spin on the stop and stare back at the spectacle of stillness expectantly.

Just when I decided that I was in fact losing it a sweet voice drifted through the air: "you know people who swear only use the words they do because they don't have the vocabulary to use more intelligent adjectives."

I studied the angled face of the girl surrounded by a thousand thick leaves; her features were soft and gentle, her large eyes more gold than brown, and rimmed with a thick outline of black. Her hair was a mess of wild red curls that framed her delicate features in the most unruly way. But what was even more strange about the petite girl sat comfortably in the looming, ageing tree, was her choice of clothing; her small frame was wrapped in what looked like a hand knitted dress of emerald and jade; her legs dressed in thick yellow fishnet tights, and balancing haphazardly on top of curls that seemed to spill endlessly past her shoulders in relentless waterfall of red, was a purple fez.

The girl jumped from the tall tree with the kind of grace one would expect from a worldwide ballet dancer, and not an oddly dressed girl in a children's home, and took an even step towards me as I willingly forgot the lighter I'd left on the ground. A soft breeze ruffled her red ringlets softly, an air of sweet cherry and warming cinnamon floating ceremoniously in the light wind. One black tipped hand reached out to brush the silky red hair from her eyes, and I met her soft stare with my own when she grinned wildly and said: "Just in case you were too busy perfecting your skilful grasp on the English language to notice, I thought I'd let you know that the shed is on fire."

Before I had a chance to reply, although I don't know what I'd have said, she left abruptly, stepping lightly in her worn dock martins, allowing me to turn to the rapidly burning shed in panic, before she glance back for a fleeting second and called "I'm Emma, by the way."

**Thanks for reading, don't forget to review! **_**:)**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi again, thank you so much to those of you who reviewed last chapter, it was so great to hear from you!**__**I hope you enjoy the second chapter! Thanks for reading! **_**:)**_

Hello stranger.

I'm almost glad you didn't reply. Because it means I know you less, and otherwise you'd forget to write one day and I'd resent you just a little for that; because I'm so much a small part of your life that you can easily disregard me without a second thought. But now you'd never have started; and it's hard to stop something you haven't started.

I hate it when people leave without a word; I'd rather know what it was that made them want to leave so the next person wouldn't have to. After a while I guess you kind of get used to the idea that no one stays forever, and you learn to let them go before it's too late. Or you just distance yourself from people in general; knowing they'll disappear soon enough like the last one and the one before that.

I know they say not to judge a book by its cover, but I think you can tell a lot about a person by their appearance; you can read that little bit about a person that they want you to know; like a brief summary that tells you everything and nothing. But mostly nothing.

If you looked at me; if you weren't a sightless stranger I might add, I think you'd see what everyone else sees; a boy with short, unkempt, brown curls, and what could only be described as a permanent scowl formed to scare off predators, (and teachers), ripped jeans and untied converse so worn I can feel the ground underneath my feet; but I like it that way, to know it won't disappear beneath my feet is something I can count on.

I wonder if you think about me; I wonder if you laugh as you read my letters over a cup of tea and a slice of buttered toast, and if as you do so your husband asks what it is that's so funny and you smile to yourself as you answer... What is it that you say? "The pitiful story of a lonely boy"? Or do you feel a certain amount of sadness for someone so alone? Not enough to stop you from forgetting a moment later when your love pulls you to him by silky material of your frilled blouse, and you drop the crumpled paper tattooed with my spidery print in a moment of pure bliss when he holds you close, close enough that you can feel the soft material of his woolen sweater vest, and the warmth of the man who loves you so beneath layers of periwinkle cotton; the steady drumming of a heart that beats just for you, and he smiles as if he holds the entire world in his arms.

I wonder a lot. But after a while of wondering the questioning becomes secondary; it's the answers that are rare, that I come to wonder for, when before I was just wondering for the sake of wondering, and not for knowing.

I imagine you're a girl, and a pretty one at that; with soft red hair and colourful, neat clothes nothing like Mrs Henderson's drab collection. I bet you have a sweet smile almost as measured as the careful steps you take in your polished heels. I bet you have kind eyes; warm and brown and wide with innocence.

I guess you could say that you look similar to a girl I know; if you were looking for a comparison.

Would you be shocked by her? Disapproving, even? I doubt you'd be judging; I think you're far too kind for that. You see she's the kind of person you can't describe with a name; it'd be wrong to sum up someone so indefinable with a word, a sentence, a book... She's a wonderful kind of person, I think.

Her name is Emma.

I know I said it's not right to present her with just one utterance, but sometimes you've got to do the wrong thing. I don't ever really call her Emma though, not that I talk to her much... but if I did I'd call her Em. I don't imagine you would though; you seem far too proper for nicknames.

I'll tell you more, so you don't have to know her for her just name, but instead her story... or the cover at least.

I'll compare her to you, because as I said you two are, quite remarkably, alike. And this would be the easiest way for you to fractionally understand, because this time, like a lot of the time, there's no complete understanding.

Unlike your nails, which I imagine are meticulously manicured, hers are permanently painted only the darkest shade of black, but never chipped. Her hair, unlike your neat, practiced style is tousled and curled, as if she's spent her entire life in the midst of a storm. She's shy, like you are, and sweet in her compassion and care, but she's strong too, unbreakable in the most delicate way.

When asking others of this mysterious girl I always got the same response; they said she was quirky.

Quirky. I guess that explains the vintage ponchos and knockoff converse... The knowing look in her eye that says she's much older than her years. And maybe even the faint smell of cinnamon and cherry that tiptoes around her like a ghost. But it explains little else.

I guess it's a word I can hardly question, considering it seems just about right, and so completely wrong; so basically what I'm used to. But I need to understand. Because there's something about her that tells me she's different. And different is pretty special in a world where everything's the same; where everyone's the same.

One thing's for sure; I won't stop until I have enough words to fill every page of one of those thick, dusty, books she reads; the ones with tiny print and paper curling with age, with words no one from the era knows and the kind of characters that wear waist coats and corsets (not generally at the same time).

Unfortunately I'm going to need to divulge deeply into my thesaurus if I want to get anywhere. But she's worth it... I just know it.

It looks like I'm going to be talking to you a lot too; after a recent... disagreement... with my scraggily social worker. In which she said I was being "thoughtless and impulsive" and "could've gotten myself killed, though I'm pretty sure she was more upset about her already beaten up old car that I'd "borrowed", for the day, than she was concerned for my safety. An addition to this rash judgment she also still hasn't given the stamp money yet... But I decided, (after mass consideration), that it may be best if I wait a little while to ask, at least until this whole mess has calmed down. Anyway it was through mouthfuls of apple tart, (that she wasn't polite enough to offer me), that Mrs. Henderson squawked she'd like me to carry on writing to you. I still think it's only because she read it in one of those 'how to deal with a disobedient teenager' books she gets all of her so called wisdom from, but for once I'll listen. Because I'm finally being listened to, and even if it is by a wordless stranger, it's nice to be heard.

I'm glad I met you, or know you, or don't. It's nice to have someone to talk to, or someone to listen. So thanks.

***

"Is that a thesaurus?" I raised my head slowly, wincing in preparation, "um... Yes. No. Maybe..?" My eyes fell on Emma, her head tilted in amusement, eyes shining with laughter; she nodded, as if my answer made any sort of sense, and moved to sit by my side. Her ruffled skirts fanned out around her in a swirl of technicolor. I avoided her eyes when they searched my face, for what I don't know.

"What were you doing with that lighter?" I swallowed nervously, wondering why the approval of a girl I hardly knew meant so much.

"I... I..." She interrupted my fading words with a harsh laugh, one so unexpected my head shot up to catch the expression that afforded such anger and such a dramatic change in mood.

"You don't even know, do you? What, were you trying to impress your 'friends'?"

I realised I had nothing to say. I was only on the third page of my thesaurus.

"Wow, Will; I really thought you were more than just another guy who wants to fit in." She shook her head sadly, huge eyes shining with pity as she rose from her place at my side, the colourful beads around her neck swaying as she moved and crashing like thunder when they touched so suddenly.

"You don't know one thing about me." I spat bitterly, suddenly overcome with anger eyes boring into the back of her fluffy red hair harshly.

"You're just like everyone else." She retorted simply, more sadness etched into her youthful-aged features than I knew.

"You're wrong." I shook my head desperately; more afraid she was right than that she'd never know she was wrong.

My voice rose to a despairing shout when she disappeared further into the crumbling house, "you can't just walk away from me when I'm talking to you!" She spun around to face me, mad hair a raging fire around her when she asked "why do you even care what I think?"

I sighed sadly, but answered when she turned slowly from me with tired eyes. "You know when you look in the mirror, at the start of the day, and everything's fresh and new, and you think 'right, this is a new day, I'll be different today; I'll be someone I can be proud of.'" Emma tilted her head slightly in an indifferent expression that I took as encouragement to carry on and moved slightly so that she was facing me completely. "And then halfway through the day, when you're already tired of trying, you see yourself in a place where everything's twisted and broken, and you realise that you don't even recognise yourself anymore; that this stranger is how the rest of the world sees you... I don't want to live that way anymore, Em."

A blank expression I couldn't understand masked all emotion, and she spoke calmly again when she said "all the mirrors here are cracked and broken." And left without another word, floating through the doorway airily without a even glance back.

***

I woke in the darkness to the sound of screeching tires, slamming doors and rushed footsteps, uneven, disjointed footsteps... Running.

I rushed down the aged wooden steps, avoiding the ones I knew would creak before coming to an abrupt halt when I reached the landing, and burst through the doors clumsily.

"You don't get to decide for me, this is my life and I can do what I want. You're not my mother!" Emma shouted harshly, freezing when she met my shocked expression in the doorway, "can you drive?" her head tilted up to mine, tightlipped and unwavering when we met, but the wind ruffled her fiery curls and unveiled her frightened eyes.

"Well I'm learning at the moment but..."

"Perfect." Emma nodded decidedly, throwing a pair of keys I hadn't realised she'd been holding, which I somehow managed to catch, fumbling nervously with them as I followed her to a car in the drive way.

"Managed to grab them off of Mrs. Henderson when she wasn't looking." Emma told me with a proud smirk... Well? What are you waiting for? Get in!" She gestured to the beaten up old car in front of us.

"Should we really be doing this?" I mumbled anxiously, eyes falling on the angry looking adults who had nearly reached us, the disjointed mob was lead by the one and only Mrs. Henderson, looking as grey and round as ever, wheezing and wobbling as she charged straight for us.

Emma laughed boldly, head tilted backwards dramatically "what, are you scared bad boy?" I winced at the name but when she raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow teasingly I saw the fear in her wide eyes that begged me to be brave, because she needed someone to be.

In that second I decided who I'd be. "I'm just saying I know how you hate to be out after dark... But if you're sure..." I joked opening the door at my words, Emma laughed lightheartedly and I grinned proudly, before sliding into the driver's seat next to her and asking "where to?", as I fastened my seatbelt and faced my crumbling childhood earnestly; the house that'd never be home.

Emma gazed out if the window thoughtfully, "anywhere but here."

***

"We're here." I broke the silence just a quietly as it had started, half expecting Emma to remain staring mindlessly out of the window, they way she had from the moment we got in the car. "You coming?" I asked softly. Emma's eyes snapped up to mine, as if she'd only just noticed me sitting there. She noodled hesitantly, throwing me a weak smile before she swung her thin legs out of the car door, hopping out as gracefully as she had entered.

"Where is here...?" She asked, eyes scanning the horizon warily.

"Just a place I like to go to think... Only usually I just walk..." I chuckled warmly, but Emma's responding nod was emotionless and cold.

"What happened today?" I asked simply, leaning against the cold car expectantly.

"What were you doing with the lighter?" Her voice rose in annoyance, her arms folded protectively over her chest, over her heart.

I turned to her openly, meeting her eyes with a sincere gaze before opening my mouth to speak "fine. I'll tell you. But you've got to answer my question after, okay?"

Emma nodded hesitantly, long hair bouncing as she did so.

"... I just thought... What's the point being a good guy, you know doing your homework and not drinking or... smoking... When no one even cares how hard you try everyday to be someone you can be proud of... When everyone already has opinions of you without knowing who you are... Every day I start off trying, but by the end I've become this stranger I know so well... This guy I don't even recognise as myself..." Emma caught a strand of curly hair as it fell, tucking it behind one star pierced ear and nodding for me to continue. But I paused for a moment longer when I noticed a blur of blackness on the delicate white flesh of her thin wrist, almost immediately though she pulled at the sleeves of her dark, woollen jumper with a shiver, covering the pale expanse of her arms and looking to me expectantly.

"I found the lighter..." I continued, "Someone left it on the table and after an hour long rant from Miss Cues about the dangers of smoking, I decided it was time to test her theory... Because for a minute there I thought about what it would be like to be bad, just for once; to be the person I'm expected to be, and just give in. I'm tired of people saying they expect more of me, when they don't even know what I'm capable of; they don't know how hard I try everyday to be a better person, they just meet me for a second and stick a label on me; but I know I'm more than a bad boy. Sometimes I just forget, that's all."

Emma nodded evenly, swallowing deeply with an expression laced with bewilderment. "I don't let people close to me... Because every time I've gotten close to trusting someone completely... They leave..." Emma took a shaky breath before carrying on.

"How long have you lived at Brambleberry house?" Emma asked quietly. Nodding knowingly to the ground when I said "four years."

"So you've known home? A real home with people you love and who love you? Even if for a short time before everything went wrong... And you moved to the house."

"Yes." I agreed, banishing the memories of hot chocolate by a raging flame; of bright, warm colours, because I knew how the scene ends; with a flickering flame burning to nothing; the darkness that remains, and the laughter of a happy family rising to the shouts of something more real than the previous blissful ignorance.

"I've lived here since I was three. I've never had a real childhood, you know? One with Disney movies and Christmas with a real family, who are there because actually want to be with you... Not because that's what they're paid to do."

"Just because they're your family doesn't mean they want to be there..." I added, without even realising, because it was more to myself than to Emma.

"Right. But they stay with you anyway; because they're family, and that's what family do."

"Right..." I admitted, watching at her wistful stare as it tore angrily at the starry sky.

"For the last few years they've been trying to find me adoptive parents... But everyone who comes only wants young children or a baby... Somehow though they found an old couple who want an older child... But... Just when it was almost completely decided... Everything fell through." Emma blinked rapidly in her confusion, searching for something she couldn't see in the darkness.

"Like everyone else they left and I don't know... I just... I really thought it would be different this time... I thought they were different."

I nodded sadly; searching for eyes that were hidden from mine so discretely, desperately awaiting the moment they'd meet mine again, finally twinkling with mischief and not tears.

"But I'm- I'm fine..." She smiled weakly, adjusting the hem of her oversized jumper as she shifted uncomfortably on the rusty car bonnet, a sudden bitterness swirled around us and the mad red of Emma's soft hair brought the heavy sent of cinnamon and cherry which quickly filled the emptiness. Silently I tore my gaze from hers, joining her saddened stare to the distance.

"I think it's about time we go home." I murmured more to the darkening sky than to Emma, gazing at the lively landscape of bright buildings and endless life. Turning to Emma when I realised she hadn't spoken any kind of response.

"I think so too."


	3. Chapter 3

Hello stranger.

It's amazing how quickly everything can change.

Everything; a lifetime, defined by a moment that changes it all. And for the first time, I'm glad for that moment.

The moment I met Emma. Somehow, it was _all_ because of her; someone so small and so soundless in her whispered words, that she's barely noticed. But if you do notice her, it's hard to look away; it takes at least a lifetime to take in her unmistakably mismatched clothing and hair that flows endlessly with every smooth step she takes in her scuffed, oversized boots. But that's just the surface; the small part of her that she's happy to reveal to the world, and there's _so_ much more.

If you listen; if you're granted the honor of hearing, (although you'll have to listen very carefully to catch her fleeting words as the rush away with the wind), you'll be enchanted by her honesty and compassion. But it isn't that that makes our every conversation a cherished memory when it fades... It's the way she influences everyone around her, liberating them with so little. Because she makes us think, about things we never really cared about before, and suddenly it's not so scary that I don't have the answers, because I'm not alone anymore, we're lost together, and I've never felt safer than I do spinning violently in the nothingness with her as my friend.

I'd never really had a friend before... Not one that sees so deeply she reaches the parts of me I'd forgotten even existed... Not a real friend.

I think, I feel... safe. Yeah, that's it. After so long I'd forgotten how it feels, but I remember now. A comfort found so simply and yet so easily believed, all she has to do is smile and I'll be happy enough with the nothing I called my everything for so long, and the everything I've found in, what, a few weeks?

I regret I spend so long talking about my own life, when I know nothing about the kind stranger who listens.

I'd be polite if it made sense. I'd ask you how you are if you could answer. Because honestly, I'd like to know, I'd ask you a thousand questions still not be satisfied.

Would you answer if I asked? I'll ask one, one that leads to a thousand more; I guess you could say it's my favourite question.

What's home to you?

I'm sure you have one, because most people do. Is it warm and bright there? Is it furnished with light wood and soft rugs? Are the walls yellow? Or perhaps something calming like blue or purple.

I bet whatever the colour the walls they're mostly covered with memories of your life; pictures of your family and friends as they've grown, I wonder if they have red hair like you? If the picture of your mother shows a woman with friendly doe eyes and soft waves of auburn hair, your dad next to her gave you his smile; honest and sincere, and what made your husband fall for you to start with; because when he looks at you, and the lovely smile that is just... the epitome, of the woman he loves;he knows he's found home.

When you look back at the man who holds your heart so delicately in the palm of his hands, does anything else really matter?

Is home the place you rest your head when you're tired? Is it the room that basks in the light of the burning fireplace; the meticulously decorated walls, the soft cream carpet?

Or is home the man who holds his strong hands to the flickering flame, basking in the comfort and warmth of the home you made together? Maybe it's the familiar faces found expensively framed; ones that come to life with every memory you've lived to get to that very moment? Or perhaps the almost soundless footsteps of an approaching form? You know they're his; even as they're muffled by the cream carpet you chose together.

I guess I should try to explain my seemingly endless questions... Because I know I hate to be questioned meaninglessly, and by a face I don't recognise, too; one that doesn't recognise me either.

I like to think you're different though. Perhaps, by your lack of judgment, you work in some field of counsel; so maybe you're used to people like me; maybe I'm ordinary in your line of work, but I doubt it, or at least, I hope not...

That is... If you can even open this letter...

I had to glue the edges down so that Mrs. Henderson won't open it, but hopefully by the time you read this the glue will have worn off; the packet said it should last for a few weeks or so... I'm not sure why anyone would ordinarily want such temporary glue... Perhaps for a school project they'd rather be binned once marked; rather than be stuck to the wall for everyone to see... Or maybe for those broken glasses people tape back together, but with glue; because they're getting another pair soon and the tape looked silly anyway.

I don't know, maybe.

But back to my many unanswered questions... I guess a good place to start is at the beginning. It's what most people do... so I'll start a little way off then.

Ever since I was little I've been asked about my family, it's just one of those questions people ask; in school, you're asked to draw our family tree at a young age; although I'm pretty sure I only lasted half the lesson when the questions fought too much, and when the smiling faces that surrounded me became unbearable; jealousy, that's it. And the growing wonder of why I couldn't be known for just me_. _I've only ever been who I am right now, maybe time has aged my face; perhaps I come across brave and strong nowadays, but I'm still that same scared little boy who ran out of his first lesson, and who would run from practically every one after that.

What they don't see; what they don't want to see, is that they're the ones I'm running from; the reason I had to hide to start with was because I was lost, and I'd rather be hidden well than just not cared for enough to be found.

At least I could say then it was because I didn't want to be known, that no one knew me. Few people have, but my family do, and I know my family, sometimes I just wish I didn't.

So it's not because I don't have a family that I don't want to colour the image onto paper; it's because it's hard to draw a smiling face that doesn't exist, for me, it's the smile and not the face that I can't quite picture.

In school they tell you not to lie. And it would be a lie to create a family tree where the flowers are pretty and bright; the roots planted firmly in the ground, and the branches alive and growing. Because in reality, it's barely alive; the leaves falling faster than they should, and lying lifeless on the hard ground; red like bodies in a war. The flowers are colourless, the roots so far out that we threaten to fall.

I'm still that same boy who cried on his first day before class when he heard what the lesson was, minutes later he didn't change when he kicked the table over just like they knew he would; I wouldn't have.

It was only because I'd heard the teachers talking; warning, of a boy with a troubled past; a boy, barely five years old, who simply must, be bad news.

I'm him; I'm everything I am and everything I was: the same. Maybe I'm exactly what they thought I would be, maybe I'm just a little bigger now.

Or maybe I'm only that way because it's easier, and it's harder; and I still care too much, and not enough.

But I don't see why I need to prove myself to strangers anyway, when I've told them enough; I've said my name, as definitive as it is, and showed my face; the small vision of what's inside that I'm happy to share; that I'm happy to disguise. And that should be enough.

But home_; _that's something we _all_ yearn to find, isn't it? Something we have in common? As different as we may be; whether we've found it or not; it's a part of us we can't live without, whether we admit it or not.

I've been searching. I feel like I've been searching my entire my life and I've come to find; that maybe home isn't made up of four walls and a cream carpet; maybe home is just somewhere where nothing hurts, somewhere to be safe and free, whether the doors locked or not.

Maybe it doesn't matter what colour the walls are there, or what size the plush red sofa is, as long as the faces on the wall smile. And as long as the footsteps that patter on the carefully chosen flooring are recognised by their shape and depth; as long as you're safe from the flame of the fireplace and the heat of the flame is nothing compared to the warmth of the love that fills the glowing, yellow room.

Maybe everyone has a home; maybe we just forget where that is sometimes, in a world where currency is measured in gold and not love.

Recently I've come to think that home can be wherever you make it. Whether you're surrounded by walls or autumn leaves; laid on a bed of grass or expensive linen, it doesn't matter, as long as the eyes that look back at you are known so well, that you feel young again. It doesn't matter if the face that holds such power has been known for a year or two; a lifetime, or a day; or if you are young still, and you've just spent so long moving, that you haven't had a moment to breathe in the facade that is youth; the dreams and innocence that makes childhood so precious.

Nothing matters so long as you forget when you're held in their heavy gaze; as long as the smile that meets is just so _them_, that you simply know, this_, _is where you're supposed to be; this is home... And I think that's something I'm starting to find.

_"Will I swear if that's a cigarette..." I looked up to find Emma standing before me, lips pursed, arms folded, like an angry school teacher. I bit back a chuckle at her expression and stance before muttering, cigarette held tightly between my teeth, "I thought you didn't swear?" my grin teasing when the cigarette poked out from between my teeth._

_Emma's features creased into a disgusted grimaced when she turned to walk away. I called her name in exasperation before she could leave, smiling only the slightly when she turned to me again, huffing in irritation before almost shouting, "what?", her voice far too soft and sweet for the anger that flared in her fiery eyes. _

_"It's not lit, see?" I took the cigarette from my lips and held it out to Emma, watching as she examined it disbelievingly._

_"Look you can have the lighter if it makes you feel any better." I offered, fishing it out from my pocket when Emma nodded slowly and throwing it gently, smiling hopefully when she clutched it harshly in her small hands, neat, black nails scratching the yellow paint, her brow furrowing in concentration, before she slid it carefully into the fluffy the pocket of her lime green poncho._

_"If you're not smoking then what are you doing with the cigarette?" She asked calmly, smoothing the creases from the delicate material of her silky violet... dress? I couldn't be sure, the wispy hem fell just above her knees, which were blanketed with a pair of thick, patterned winter tights, the top disappearing beneath her large, draping poncho._

_I grinned knowingly before replying, "It's a metaphor, see: You put the killing thing right between your teeth, but you don't give it the power to do its killing."_

_I laughed freely at Emma's shocked expression; my ever opinionated friend, speechless._

_"I take it you haven't read _the fault in our stars_ then?" Emma shook her head slowly, walking towards me that in that practiced-to-perfection way she always did. _

_"Wow. I was pretty sure you'd read just about every book ever written." I joked with a lighthearted smirk, relaxing back on the soft grass when I was certain she wasn't going anywhere, my hands cushioning my head where it rested on the ground. _

_The fallen leaves crinkled under her heavy shoes when she stopped to join my spot on the grass. "I guess not." She smiled back softly as she shuffled slightly to get comfortable. _

_After a moment of silence I found myself voicing my thoughts without thinking. "You know Mrs. Henderson hates me because of you..." I turned my head to watch as her eyes widened incredulously and she laughed sarcastically before answering "because she loved you before." and raised her eyebrows expectantly._

_"In matter of fact she did... I might add that it didn't help you pulling faces at me through the glass when she was telling me off... I don't think she was particularly happy with me laughing in response to ''but do you want to kill yourself Will because you could've died!'" I pretended not to notice the giggle that Emma tried to muffle with her black tipped hand, and even more the dark smudge that covered her delicate wrist so possessively, the blemish I couldn't seem to tear my eyes from every time I saw her so closely. Instead, I averted my eyes and nodded to myself before carrying on, "she does love me really though..." _

_Emma snorted ironically, "where'd you get that idea from?" I quirked an eyebrow in response "if she didn't they why would she spend so long talking to me every day? Hmm? And why would she give me money for stamps to send the letters she thinks will 'boost my creativity… see? She cares about my creativity!" I smirked triumphantly, nudging Emma softly with a dopey grin, which she quickly returned, with a hum of gentle laughter; a sweet, melodic sound, and suddenly the frosty autumn breeze was a little warmer, carrying the sound of light laughter as carefully as it should be held; her hair the perfect blend of red and gold, and almost a part of the picture of carefully arranged leaves that had somehow fallen in such a specific way, and discover their place, already dead, and finally more alive than ever. _

_Disregarded so brutally, dead until reborn; until now._

_I barely noticed; I barely noticed anything when she smiled like that, honey brown eyes sweet like the colour when they met mine, and I fell deeper into her heavy gaze_.

**Hi, I hope you found this story okay since I changed the summary! Thanks to Bookworm2104 for suggesting I use the quote from **_**the fault in our stars**_**:****"**_**It's a metaphor, see: You put the killing thing right between your teeth, but you don't give it the power to do its killing.**_**" And for giving me a great addition of books to read this summer! :D**

**I'd really love it if you left a comment, I really appreciate you guys reading but a review would make my day! Thanks! **_**:)**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed last chapter and the new chapter of wishful nothings! Your reviews really do mean a lot to me!**

**There's some angst ahead, so this has gone up to a T rating because it's kind of dark. I'd like to dedicate this chapter to the wonderful Moonbike; happy (late) birthday! :D (And sorry I'm dedicating such a depressing chapter to you lol). Thanks for reading! **_**:)**_

Hello stranger

I've found myself thinking of you often. Of bright pencil skirts in green and yellow; of matching blouses and cardigans with shiny brooches and polished heels that click importantly when you walk. You radiate innocence and light wherever you go, and it is with thoughts of such sweetness, that the darkness is given a rare kind of clarity that only the most particular of lights can bring.

I think of your gentle smile and your wide eyes a lot; it's not often I meet a child with eyes shining with such purity; and you're a grown woman.

When my teachers start to shout, and when Emma seems more mysterious than usual, I think of you then; because I know you're not like them; you're open and honest; you don't have secrets and you most certainly aren't scared of the ghosts of your past, because you know they can't hurt you from so far away.

Do you even have any ghosts to run from? I bet your parents are loving and kind and so proud of their lovely daughter...

Were you popular at school? That's probably a silly question; I can't imagine why you wouldn't be. I bet you have so many friends that you barely have the time to sit and read this, perhaps that's why you do so over breakfast: because it's the only alone time you get...

The perfect life, a flawless past, and you still take the time to listen to people like me... Why is that?

I wouldn't listen to me. Not if I had the chance. If I could, I'd run; like everyone else does, maybe I'd even run alongside then.

... You know how when you're young there's a person you know, or don't, more than less likely, whose every movement is performed with such grace that it's captivating to watch them simply walk, whose every word is heard poetic and sweet and whose appearance though blemished is flawed to perfection...

And then, one day, something horrible happens; something that changes everything: you see them cry. Your hero; untouchable and oh so strong, will not change, will not break, but the cracks that've always been are suddenly visible. In a second you realise they trip when they walk and stutter words that only seemed magic to a child who doesn't understand it's all an illusion.

Emma was not; is not, perfect. Her makeup isn't mild and mature like yours; her eyes are lined with a thick rim of black and her hair's untamed, her clothes never match and even the words "flawed to perfection" don't quite fit her mismatched wardrobe and unreadable expression when a smile is offered in return for friendship.

She's quiet and isolated, alone when she's by my side; you're everything she's not and she's nothing you aren't. But Emma isn't naive; she knows pain like a friend she hates to greet. Maybe that's the only difference, such a vast, weightless difference. Yet somehow, she's the darkness if you're the light, but right now; in the real world, her grey dimness is a whole lot brighter than the complete darkness that's cast its shadow over everything I can't find. I fear I'd be blinded by the light you bring anyway; that the innocence that glows around you in an aura of gold would in contrast make mine shine darker than before.

And I've never felt so safe.

You may think it's a little strange. The funny thing is I do too.

But I've got used to not understanding. Emma after all does a lot of things I don't understand; when she speaks, she does so in a whisper as if no one should hear, and her eyes drift from mine when I smile kindly in response. When her words are spoken loud enough to hear, which is less often than a lot, they come across rehearsed and, if anything, pained; as if every utterance is made of broken glass.

She told me once she feels safest far away; in the land of fantasy and words, but honestly I wish she'd read less if it would mean she's happy to be in this world, with me. If words are our disguise, then why should we need them when we're not afraid? Sometimes I know magic phrases are the only way to reach someone so far away; the perfect shield and the most common form of communication, but sometimes I wish she'd hear my pleas before they're voiced.

... Yesterday at school there was a new girl in our class, tall and broad with short messy hair and kind eyes, Emma was just wonderful with her; sweet and welcoming and interested... I think that maybe she's just great with people with general, well, when she wants to be; there's a little boy called Jimmy who used to live with her and the family she stayed with before she came here who follows her around like a lost puppy; it's not hard to see he absolutely dotes on her... I guess I'm just more reserved when it comes to new people.

The new girl is called Shannon. She seems... nice... But I don't understand most of the things she says no matter how hard I search my thesaurus... And she ate an entire chicken at lunch and Emma looked like she was about to pass out...

The more I get to know Emma the more I notice the strange things in way she acts. The other day in biology we were looking at insects from the school field and Emma looked so scared when she whispered that they "might have a family", (I initially thought she was kidding but the solemn expression that accompanied her words told me otherwise), that I suggested we freed the poor creatures into the greenery. She grinned thankfully at this and happily distracted the teacher while I took the jar of assorted bugs outside... Unfortunately, Mr. Mc Hansh realised what had happened and didn't find my heroic act quite as noble as Emma did, (she shared her PB&J sandwich with me at lunch as a thanks for my efforts, all the while eyeing Shannon as if she was in the midst of murder). Mr. Mc Hansh gave me a half hour detention at the end of the day as opposed to a well deserved thanks for all my hard work. But I didn't care too much; the sandwich was the best I'd ever had.

The whole experience did, if anything, make me realise she has a lot of... quirks. I mean I know a lot of people hate smoking but her reaction was a little over the top... And of course there's the clothes... I think it's fair to say I've given up on being surprised by her shocking choice of attire, (still reading that thesaurus), yesterday she came into school in an huge knitted jumper so long it dragged on the ground like the train of a wedding dress... a wedding dress which bears the words "Merry Christmas!" and the picture of a snowman... And it's April.

And then there's the smudge of black on her tiny wrist which I can never seem to distinguish... Well, could never seem to distinguish...

But I guess if you really care about someone you don't need to understand every little detail to be their friend... Because when you deserve the trust that comes so fearfully they'll answer every leering question you were afraid to ask, and maybe you'll wish you never knew, because they can't be that untouchable hero if they're broken, and although you respond bravely, deep down you're scared, and you know it means you can't be their light in the darkness, either. But you'll never give up shining.

I think of you a lot.

I think of you when I'm more scared than usual. When I smile like I'm fine because the teachers don't listen like you do, and when and I play prince for a girl in a dress that isn't white like it should be.

I know it's wrong, but sometimes I wish she were more like you. Sometimes I wish she dressed like everyone else and listened to an iPod instead of a cassette. Sometimes I wish I hadn't found out what that black smudge on her wrist means; sometimes I wish I hadn't seen the details of her past engraved into her pale flesh so definitively. Sometimes I wish there were no ghosts to run from and no secrets to hide and to tell.

Sometimes I wish I were the vest-wearing, stranger-loving gentleman whose only problems are exceptionally ordinary.

But sometimes I don't.

***  
_  
It was a raining that night. That's why I woke I'm sure of it. The droplets fell harshly against my window like angry silver pellets to their target. I wouldn't normally wake at that time; every night I'd remain awake for a long as possible; until exhaustion would render me lifeless, and I'd collapse in a heap onto my pillow, where I'd remain until I woke, never earlier than sunrise; not for any reason._

But this time was different.

It was dark outside; the kind of darkness that takes over everything until there's nothing left, or at least it feels like that at the time; but in the morning light again, the whole haunting experience is forgotten like a lost dream.

I lay in my bed for a while, waiting for sleep to wash over me once again, but realising that wasn't going to happen any time soon I decided to get a drink, as if somehow the short journey downstairs would earn the tiredness I desired.

Fumbling in the darkness I found my way to the colourless corridor. I'd just made it out of my door when I stumbled, a loud squeak caused me to freeze, whisper a hushed "hello?" and sigh dramatically when Emma's soft voice responded with a gentle, "hi...", my extended sigh was cut off by the sound of a muffled sob.

I tilted my head slightly to watch her expression, but I couldn't see anything behind the think veil of darkness that separated us, slowly I crouched until our eyes were level. "are you okay..?" I asked softly, a quiet "yes." reached me but I shook my head slowly, eyes finally adjusting to the darkness, "no you're not..." I muttered.

Emma raised her head uncertainly until her gaze was level with mine.

"What, are you scared of the dark?" I joked with a small grin I hoped she could see.

She considered my words thoughtfully before responding carefully, "not of the dark... More of what's hiding in the darkness..." her tone showed no hint of a smile; her voice was flat, dead.

She continued when my silence was too loud to bear. "How can you not be frightened of something so uncertain?"

Surprised by the sudden seriousness of the conversation I thought for a moment before responding, "... The night is like a blank canvas; you can paint whatever you want, there are a thousand shining stars if you can see them. If not, well, if darkness is all you see in nothing than you better throw out your sunglasses..."

Emma smiled lightly, and I finished with a small grin of my own "If not tomorrow's just around the corner, and that, is one thing we can be certain of."

"Author?" She asked softly,

"Will Schuester" I winked cheekily, not that I could imagine she'd see.

Emma nodded slowly, and I imagined her red curls bobbing in the darkness with a smile, "walk me back to my room?" She asked gently, I replied wordlessly, rising to my feet and offering my hand to pull her to her feet, smiling when I looked down at her smaller form, her outline just visible, and if I looked hard enough, her wide eyes glittering back at mine shyly.

We made our way back to her door in silence, my hand brushing against her smaller one, reminding her that I was there, taking those uncertain steps with her in the darkness.

The moment the door opened an air of swirling cinnamon and cherries floated from the doorway. I followed Emma into the room when she gestured for me to join her inside, affording myself the moment to take in the place she called her own.

The entire room was lit with a thousand flickering candles of varying shapes and sizes, with unique glass bowls and the most heavenly of smells, placed strategically around the room; resting on the floor in large, colourful vases; on the windowsill in mismatched rows, scattered carefully over stacks and stacks of books that lay in piles on the carpet and even in between them on crowded shelves that threatened to fall. The only other light shone from a string of sparkling fairy lights that draped over the blue walls thoughtlessly, until the entire room was left seemingly endless, glittering and glowing with a mystical kind of beauty.

"It seems like you've got a galaxy of stars in here at least..." I murmured, motioning to the glittering room, Emma smiled meekly, glancing down at her bare feet, her toenails painted black to match the dark varnish on her fingernails. It watched her swaying form in silence; the fluttering material of her delicate purple night gown and the contrasting green swimming trunks that reached just past her knees, a combination pretty strange even for Emma.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow then..?" I asked, turning to leave, but her silky voice begging me to stay had me obediently frozen and nodding.

"Please, sit?" Emma offered, having made her way towards the small bed in the corner of the room, and patting the soft velvet material by her side. Hesitantly, I journeyed through the sea of light until I had reached her, sinking into the soft sheets of her bed with a grateful sigh of relief that I hadn't disrupted any of the balancing flames.

We sat in silence, the patchwork sheets dipping under our weight, and looked back at Emma. In that moment she felt so far from me, eyes hidden behind a curtain of red curls; but when she brushed the hair from her vision, and offered a small smile, I realised that maybe it was a barrier that could be broken. For the first time, she looked... young. Her ageless features were free of makeup, sweet and gentle and glowing with youth. And it was like, for the first time, I could really see her.

"I'm glad you found me..." She spoke out to the darkness depths of the room; the shadows unreached by the discontinuous light, and I wondered if she meant just tonight. "I have trouble with those things... The- the uncertain things..." She nodded, as if convincing herself to carry on, and I stared back out at the spot her eyes were so focused on, "sometimes... I get scared something's out there... Lurking in the shadows... Just waiting to pounce... But by the morning it's all a distant memory... One that's not totally mine; but I remember, like a forgotten dream; like a nightmare you can't wake up from... Even though you know it's not real it's still terrifying; sometimes it feels more real than this moment..." Emma finished, finally casting her gaze back to mine, "crazy right?"

I thought carefully before responding, "no, and even if it were there's nothing wrong with being a little crazy..." I grinned, trying to lighten the mood with a bright smile.

"Sometimes I wish I was more like everyone else." she whispered darkly.

"Have you ever thought that maybe it's not that you're different; maybe them who are all the same?" I smiled warmly, eyes trained so purposefully on hers, holding her gaze until it was torn from mine with a shadow of a smile lining her features hopefully.

"I have." she laughed lightheartedly, one small hand moving to press against her lips when the sound escaped.

A sudden silence struck the air when my eyes fixed upon the mysterious mark on her wrist... Was that... a tattoo? She fought with the flimsy, delicate material of her nighty to cover the blemish to her pale skin.

"Emma..." I murmured softly when she started to recoil, "hey..." I soothed sweetly, reaching out to reveal the mark, after a moment she relaxed, wide eyes pleading when I grasped her tiny wrist so softly. "It's okay..." I nodded with a facade of calmness, and allowed my eyes to drift downwards.

My eyes widened when they took in the image before me; her soft flesh, so fragile it threatened to tear like the discarded paper it resembled, scarred so thoughtlessly with the image of a bird flying free from its cage, sketched almost childishly in black, and hidden behind the blackness that fought to cover were the unmistakable remains of deep, raging wounds. A sudden wave of sadness crashed around me, sadness for the friend I thought I knew; who I suddenly realised was a total stranger. I subconsciously ran my thumb over the aged skin of her pale wrist, soothing her scars with my soft touch.

"What happened?" I asked softly, my eyes lifting to meet her averted ones, until they rose to mine and I realised with a choked breath that they glistened with unshed tears, I offered a watery smile, clutching her tiny hand like it was all I had.

"It was a few years ago... B-before I came here... I was living with a foster family... but... The lady who looked after us... Mrs. Treamon... She started to get really sick... She had lung cancer... She used to smoke a lot... It was pretty stressful looking after all of us kids..." A harsh sob crashed and fell, echoing in the dark silence, Emma rushed unsuccessfully to catch it. Allowing the rivers of tears to wash over her for a moment. "Everyone leaves me, that's why I'm here... because no one's ever stayed... They moved all of us here after she died; her husband was too heartbroken to keep looking after us on his own..." She shrugged as if somehow, she was okay; as if her experiences were ordinary and accepted, a jagged stream of silver ran over her pink cheeks deceivingly.

I found myself wondering how it was possible to look so young and so aged at the same time... As if, so immediately, time had torn at the shield of youth until all that was left was neither young nor grown, but simply timelessly broken. I felt the sudden need to hold her close; to protect her from any kind of harm that might come her way, wondering if I'd met her sooner I'd have been strong enough to hold the crumbling pieces of her heart without faltering, left gazing helplessly at the heartbroken girl who'd taught me how to live; who I relied upon so deeply, without realising even heroes cry. Suddenly I felt heartless, or at least undeserving of its disjointed beating.

Emma grasped the silence I offered, "The first time... I didn't mean for it to happen... I was washing my hands... maybe, a little too vigorously... I had been for a long time... As if somehow... the soap would wash away the pain. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't until I saw the blood that I realised what I'd done... But that feeling, that searing, burning, pain and the scarlet blood that rolled in rivets over the pearly-white porcelain of the bathroom sink... It said I was alive."

"Emma..." I knew I couldn't reach her now, she was too far gone, living a memory; although my hands gripped her shoulders desperately; although my eyes searched endlessly for hers, her whole body shook with the memory, eyes so far from mine they were lost, clouded with a nightmare's haze.

"Once I started I couldn't stop... I died every day without escape... And when I felt I'd never be clean again; when the heart of my pain was buried so far into my flesh that it had become a part of me, the only way to feel... anything; anything other than that unforgettable fear, and the only way to be clean again, was to shed the skin that'd been touched by impurity, until all that was left was so far buried it was almost clean... almost... but never quite... But at least I felt something... Something that hurt so much it had to be real..."

In that moment I knew her. Really knew her; the first person who'd trusted me enough to let me see past her painted features, to the child who'd simply got too good at playing with make-up.

And for the first time in a long time, I was glad to be who I am; the screw up, the disappointment, the guy everyone runs from. The hero. The one to remind someone when she's scared of the dark that all she has to do is turn on a light to realise there's nothing to be afraid of... and when she can't reach; stranded fumbling in uncertainty, the one to offer a candle, burning just for her.

I'd tell her everyday just how special she is; I'd promise to hold her hand when she can't feel a thing.

For the first time I squeezed her fragile hand in my own, and I thought of Emma; of black tipped nails and windswept curls; of vintage jumpers worn as characteristic dresses, and of wide, honey-brown eyes, knowing just how strong she really was; how broken and how beautiful, and knowing I wouldn't rather be anywhere else than right there, with Emma, and everything she is. "You'll never be alone again, I promise."

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Guest review is always on if you're shy, I just can't reply to you, which is a shame because I love talking to you guys.**_** :)**_** I may disappear for a little while as my exams are coming up very soon, (*internal screaming*), but I will update as soon as I can. I was also wondering if you guys would like to read a chapter from Emma's point of view? And do you prefer reading the letters or the story? You can let me know in a review or by messaging me on my tumblr, which is on my profile. Your opinions help me be a better writer. **_**:)**_** Sorry for the angst in this chapter, I've never written anything like this before. I'd love to hear what you think! **_**:)**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi guys! Sorry it's taken me so long to write this, exams have been kind of crazy! I hope I haven't lost all of you in the wait! The majority of you said you'd like to read a chapter in Emma's POV so here it is! **

Emma's POV

Hello...

I'm not too sure where to start, seeing as I'm not sure what to call you; I can't say you're a friend, because I hardly know you. Or don't at all. I could even say we're in competition... but we both know that's not true... Saying we're competing would be like saying a nail is competing with a hammer, and just to be clear: I'm the nail.

I'm Emma, by the way. I don't know your name, and I'm glad of that; it makes you less real, and it's easier that way... but I thought I'd share my name, because it's the right thing to do. I think Will would want us to be friends. As much as I'm not one for unnecessary introductions and small talk I imagine you are, you just seem like one of that kind of person. It's not that I don't care about the rest of the world... It's actually because I care so much that I don't want to waste my time talking to them. Because that's what it is: a waste of time. We can learn so much from people; about people, things only one can tell us, and we're wasting time talking about the weather.

I imagine your name is gentle, sweet and girly... The name of a flower, perhaps. I bet the beauty that defines you is grounded so far into your bones, that it flutters out as you talk, as you breathe. I bet even your voice is soft and girlish and the air around you is tinted with a flowery warmth.

How is it Will thinks so highly of you? How is it you manage to be so perfect without trying, and silently capture Will's heart with less than nothing? He talks about you often... Or at least, mentions you occasionally... Occasionally turned always.

Maybe it's because you're so wordless that he adores you so... Maybe I'm too opinionated, too complicated and vulnerable. From what I've heard you're a pretty simple girl; you dress in a fashion both prim and proper; you dress like a lady; you're classy and sophisticated, kind and welcoming, and not at all mysterious. If you saw me in the street... wandering like I'm lost, which I am... And you, stepping so purposefully; because you have purpose, tell me you wouldn't feel sorry for someone so alone... promise it, even; or be shocked instead. My wide eyes are so different from yours; somehow you manage to be more innocent that a girl maybe half your age. I walk like I've lived, stranger, like I'm afraid of what I've learnt over years I haven't lived enough to remember. But you... so childishly blinkered, and oh-so-sweet... you simply can't have lived. It would be right to be horrified, I would be too... Grimace, snigger, gasp... if you like... It makes no difference; I'll still be grimace, snigger, gasp-worthy... and you'll still be a lie.

I'm not jealous. I'm happy Will has found someone to confess all to... But I wonder what he shares with you; a mere stranger, that he can't with me... I wonder what he says about me. Does he think me bazaar? A question to be answered? Or a mystery better left unsolved?

When I heard about you it made me want to be a better version of myself; the kind of girl Will dreams of. That's you; a fantasy. I hope you know that's all you'll ever be... I wish I believed it too, because if you're real, then I have no chance; no chance at all. As long as he compares me to a ghost, or someone even less alive, I can't be anything more than this.

... His eyes light up when he talks about you. They become distant with the sweet haze of a dream and he grins like a boy in love. I don't know why I'm telling you this... Maybe because everyone deserves to know when they're loved... The most tragic thing is never knowing.

... Have you ever climbed a tree, stranger? I bet it's hard to in expensive heels and a pencil skirt... But maybe once... Maybe when you were a young girl you did. I guess you could've been like me once... I guess I could be like you one day.

But just in case you never have known, I'll tell you something I've discovered about trees; every single one, whatever shape, size, breed; every single one, is united in this one way...

... There is a point; the highest of points, in the tallest of trees, at which the rest of the world seems small. Every evening, when the air is clouded with darkness and the sun has faded to a shadowed stranger, I climb to the highest point, in the tallest tree, in the garden of a forgotten place I'll never call home, and I watch as the unknown miles ahead glitter with mystery as families light their homes with something I can't quite capture from my place in the distance. When I was little I thought the lights belonged to fairies, but now I understand they're made of something much more magical. In that spot so far away I am as close as I'll ever be to that unknown world I've heard of so many times in books; that wonderful land of fantasy where families are as they should be, and not the distorted home of unwanted children that I've been taught to know as home; as family...

The crumbling walls that hold me prisoner aren't enough to capture the kind of love you read about in books; behind the syrupy sweet smiles of bitter strangers there is no love; no true joy or meaning, because to them, it's just a job, and they're paid to smile. I'll never know how it feels, on the outside looking in, every night I watch my temporary parents go home to their true children, finally with honest smiles, and every time the lies that keep me sane will fade a little further into the nothing it masks. I watch with the hope that one day I'll be part of the world I've imagined for so long, as the distant darkness sparkles with magic. I spend every evening watching the people around me leave; watching them light up the darkness with mystery, and praying for the day I'll light my own home with dreamlike perfection; for the day I've grown into someone worth sticking around for: someone like you. One day, I'll let him rescue me from all that has kept me prisoner for so long; I'll watch, happily helpless, as every wall I've fought so hard to build crumbles into nothing, and I'll willingly surrender, as magic is formed from the dust.

When I look at Will I see hope. I see someone strong enough, and brave enough, to fight alongside me in the battle of our demons. I see a knight in shining armor and scuffed converse almost as worn as my damaged boots. I see... my prince; someone who makes me want to be a princess, but I promised myself I'd be no one's damsel in distress, even if that means I'll be trapped forever.

I don't know why I'm writing this.

I'm writing for him.

I'm writing this for myself.

Do you think I'm being petty? I hate to say I care what you think... I imagine you see me a selfish child; you may say Will needs us both and to stop being so immature and be whatever Will needs. But I can't: we need different things.

Maybe you think me lucky to be a friend, one to see Will every day, in all his perfect imperfections, and to tell him just how special he is. But I hope you understand that if I'm going to be Will's friend; his incredibly flawed, far-from-a-fantasy, friend, I'd rather be a stranger. Because I know that when he looks at me he wishes I were you; he wishes I smiled like I meant it when I don't and laughed at jokes I don't care for and played nice with plastic air-heads he thinks are worth talking to, simply because their drawn on eye-brows match their claw-like acrylic nails and their bleach-blond hair. But how can I smile kindly at someone so like everyone else? In moments I forget Will is so different from the others.

I'm not that girl, and I never will be. I can't pretend to be someone else; not for me. Though I'm starting to wonder if I could change for him. The thing is I could be almost you. I suppose if you plaster on a fake grin and tame my red curls... perhaps replace my worn boots for a pair of pretty heels, give me a few months to learn how to walk in them, another couple to perfect that girly little skip you have, hands clutched tightly without looking like it hurts to be this... stranger... then I could be you.

I'd be everything he wants... But my eyeliner is painted so thick and so dark I fear it has permanently marked my flesh, my curls wound so tight I doubt they're possible to tame; I'm sure the kinks would still be visible no matter what... A painting of expensive foundation only hides the freckles underneath; it doesn't erase them. And I can't erase me. I'll still be angry, and sad, and scared, but I'll wear a pretty mask so no one can see, and he'll believe it because he wants to; because it's easier to.

No one's perfect; even you with your carefully sculptured auburn locks, frilly girlish blouses, and ironed socks, aren't flawless. No one is... But... someone imagined is. Someone missing the depth of flaws and the beauty of imperfection appears as she always has: her painted porcelain flesh lacks the softness of a true cheek or the honest blush of someone vulnerable and weak... Or someone real, simply; because she isn't... You may not be but I am. I feel it every time he talks to me... My heart beats faster and my cheeks colour, and it's like... every time he smiles at me... I can finally breathe.

But it could be better... I could feel alive and not just like my heart's beating. I think now that maybe if he looked at me... and smiled the way he does when he talks of you; as if I'm special; as if I'm a dream, I think that then... Maybe; just maybe, I could feel alive again.

Occasionally, at what you could call the highest level of insanity, I find myself clutching onto something worth losing, like I'm not afraid he'll be the first to let go. Occasionally, I find him grinning as if I'm all that matters, too, as if he'd rather be sat where he is, next to me, meters off the uneven ground, than with someone safer; someone who covers their fakery with make up and lies, and everything we know... occasionally... I find... that I wouldn't change a thing.

Occasionally... Occasionally turned always... I think that maybe... I'm okay... whatever that is... I think this is enough... whatever this is... I hope you're happy too, or that you're okay, too. Maybe though... every once in a while... you could let yourself be free from those killer heels I know you hate, let your aching feet know the comfort of worn boots; swap the tightly fastened Mary-Janes, for a more comfortable shoe, knowing you deserve the freedom... and climb a tree... all the way to the top.

... I can't say you're a friend. And I can't say goodbye, because I know you're close. I think you're as much a part of me as worn books and scented candles are. Maybe one day we'll meet, I can only hope we don't, for I can't compete with a fantasy, be it mine, or someone else's. So I guess I'll say farewell with an expected hello; the most appropriate greeting, too long, perhaps, because I do like to read.

See you, perhaps one day in the mirror, though I doubt you'd smile; I doubt we could ever truly be friends,

Emma.

***

It was one of those days, that was neither hot nor cold, but somewhere in-between. The wind was strong when it wanted to be but the sun more sincere.

"Emma, Emma, watch me!" Jimmy yelled, amazingly energetic after a long day at school. He ran further into the distance, his over sized school uniform hanging from his small form like a parachute when he leapt through the tall grass to finally throw himself into a wonky cartwheel. His shiny green eyes peaked out from in-between locks of dirty blonde and thick strands of the lush grass that surrounded him. His smile had been no wider than when I enthusiastically clapped his fall, "well done Jimmy, they get better every time! You'll be a gymnast before you know it!" He grinned back a sweet smile, proudly bearing his missing front teeth, and ran on ahead.

I turned to see Will a few paces behind, walking with Shannon and another girl I recognised from class.

"Back home we got this big 'ol farm, with chickens and pigs and cows... The smell's riper than a pork chop with a stomach bug!" Shannon burst into fits of laughter at her joke, one large hand grasping Will's shoulder for support, the other clutching her stomach as if at a loss for breath. Will smiled politely and chuckled with a small nod, eyes feigning mock desperation when they met mine. I bit my lip to stifle a giggle and joined them, Shannon chirped something about "getting back to feed the pigs", and with a final snort and a knowing nudge to Will, galloped off with an energetic wave my way.

"Oh, Em, I don't know if you two have met, this is Terri." Will motioned to the tall blond by his side.

Terri smiled, a toothy predatory grin that made me want to step back before she pounced. Her hair was a deep, honey blond; gloriously straight and smooth, her eyes were beady and blue, outlined with just the right amount of shimmering, colourless eye-shadow to match the shiny pink lipgloss that she moved to apply every ten minutes or so.

"Em... I've heard so much about you..." With a mocking smile her ever-amused eyes wandered over my altered uniform; the flowery orange tights I'd made from a dusty, old curtain, the tie I had creatively converted into a bandanna, and the hand-me-down blazer that not only draped over my small form shapelessly, but that had also been re-stitched with all-sorted thread, to keep it from falling apart completely. Even the uniform I had made no attempt to alter, deciding that it looked tormented enough as it was, appeared to like be under an entirely different regulation to hers. Her tie was neat, top button fastened, as it should be, her shirt carefully ironed, (and several sizes too small), and her skirt practically nonexistent, the tidy pleats giving the illusion that her tanned legs went on forever.

I slid my hand carefully into my makeshift pocket, fumbling for the courage I needed, my fingertips grazed smooth plastic. And I remembered Will's yellow lighter. The piece of himself he'd so easily discarded. For me. I conjured half a smile from somewhere unknown.

"Well I've got to dash! It was so nice to finally meet you Em... And Will... I'll see you later babe..." Her narrowed eyes remained on mine for a second longer, glittering cruelly as if apart of some unspoken joke. Her voice was like syrup when it oozed from her pouted, pink, lips; too sweet- so sweet I felt my teeth rot even after just a sentence; the emphasis was mockingly thick on some words, but she was transparent, though artificially tinged with orange.

She span to Will swiftly in her polished heels, the wave of her thick hair hitting me forcefully, I stumbled slightly, spitting out strands of blond extensions with an exaggerated grimace and cough, which earned me an eyebrow-raised scow from Will, before he turned to gaze at Terri with a thoughtless grin, wide and boyish when she kissed his cheek, leaving a scar of strawberry shine lip-gloss behind.

***

"Emma? Is that you?" Will's soft voice fluttered through the wall of darkening leaves effortlessly.

I squinted my eyes in the darkness, focusing on familiarity through the bars of crumbling leaves that held me prisoner. I peered wearily at Will, his form small with the distance, face tilted upwards to greet mine, a small smile escaped at the sight; the unkempt brown mesh of his soft hair, the baggy, ripped material of his faded blue jeans and the slightly crooked line of his lips, pursed with concentration, but couldn't help but pretend I was further away.

I slipped from the darkened comfort of withering leaves as gracefully as I could in my lose Doc Martens, and landed with a soft thud. The aged leaves crackled under my feet, the wind swirling around us, as if in preparation for a storm, the elements collecting in form.

The hand Will offered was carelessly ignored for fear of the warmth burning my wintered flesh. His face fell at my response and his hands were quickly moved to the comfort of his pockets. He shivered slightly in his tattered green hoodie, eyes suddenly averted; I suddenly felt cold.

"How come you weren't at dinner?" Will tried, sighing at the blank expression I responded with.

"What are you doing out here?" Will asked half heartedly, the toe of his worn converse kicking the amber leaves at our feet, I watched his forehead crease with meaning as I forced myself to answer, swallowing the lost pride that came with every heartless beauty that smiled his way. "I like to watch the lights turn on... they're so... pretty."

I grimaced at my words, flinching the second they left my lips. Will seemed perfectly satisfied with my inadequate description though; he smiled slightly, a sweet, genuine smile that flooded his eyes with light, and nodded slightly, as if I'd recited a beautifully written poem and not used the kind of adjective found in children's books alone.

"Pretty." He repeated softly, the single syllable an enchantment when it fell, and suddenly, I knew he understood the true meaning of the word; a definition even I wasn't sure of as I spoke.

"W-would you like to see?" I asked hesitantly, half expecting him to laugh and walk away. But his eyes snapped up to meet mine, searching my expression for traces of a lie, when he found only fear he grinned kindly, and replied at last, "I'd love to."

I sighed with relief, his smile infectious and distinctively his, cute and lopsided and because of me.

With a final nod I turned back to the large tree, admiring branches that twisted and turned and met the darkened sky halfway to the stars, knowing that soon I'd be so far from the ground that uneven rocks and clumps of browning grass wouldn't be unable to make me fall.

I pulled myself into the old tree effortlessly, one hand grasping at a thick, wrinkled branch, the other a slightly larger one a small distance from the first. I regretted my choice of attire when the technicoloured skirts of my long Tudor dress caught one of the sharper branches, but after a moment I decided that the characteristic scars would give it some life.

Gradually I made my way to the top, feeling life blossom at my fingertips, and watching as Will struggled behind me. Eventually I reached an opening in the curtain of auburn leaves and stopped carefully, waiting a moment for Will to join me.

"Wow..." A gentle breeze carried his voice calmly, and I turned to smile back at him, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear as I watched his eyes glitter and his lips curve to a grin so large it threatened to leave permanent creases on his skin. He turned to me with growing enthusiasm, shaking his head with disbelief, I bit my lip shyly, all those years of reading became worthlessness in moments like those, and suddenly... I had nothing to say.

I turned back to the stream of shimmering lights, not knowing where the sky ended and the world began, after a moment realising the closer lights shone brighter and deeper; they were real.

Looking down it was as if I could fall and be in that other mysterious land, and I wondered if falling could be classed as simply wanting to fly if it were true. Without thinking I loosened my grip on the tired branches that caged me so securely, ready to fall when his larger hand gripped mine tightly; as if I were worth holding onto, as if I kept him from falling, too. I looked up in surprise, and watched our intertwined hands carefully basking in.

"Thank you." I half expected the words to be mine, but he spoke them first, eyes slipping from the stunning view like they never wanted to leave, but settling for the light that shone in my eyes instead, as if there was any kind of comparison.

"I've never seen anything so beautiful." He smiled sincerely. But his eyes said he wasn't talking about the stars this time. I felt my cheeks flush hotly at his confession, and I forgot all about not-so-mysterious, mysterious strangers and gorgeous blonde stereotypes... suddenly not caring.

And as I often did in moments like those, I searched for a word; the word that best described the warmth carried in the frosty night breeze, and at last settled on safety. I felt safe. So far from the world I was untouched, undamaged by its harsh, thoughtless air, and yet when I looked down, at an undiscovered world so close to my wavering steps, I wanted nothing more than to walk the earth I'd dreamed of touching. So far the closest I'd come to feeling its rocky breadth, were over soggy bowls or cereal with Will during the midnight episodes of friends we'd watch from the box-set one of the older kids left when they traded something known for something real.

But this was safe. It wasn't perfect, and it wasn't something I understood or wanted to make any kind of sense of. It was disorderly and confusing and... ours.

I swung my legs freely, feeling the brush of Will's strong shoulder against mine, and the underestimated comfort of his hand resting so securely over mine, no longer afraid of looking down.

His smile was goofy and sweet when he told me about something funny that'd happened at the dinner I'd missed. When I saw my heavy black boots, and at the ruffled layers of peacock feather skirts, I wish I'd worn shiny gold heels instead. When I felt the hazy wind tug softy at my untamable curls, I wondered what it would be like to straighten the disordered layers into calculated beauty, or to swap my permanently black nail varnish for a clear layer of natural shine.

I wish and wonder a lot. And then he looks at me all puppy-dog eyes and too-wide-to-be-real smiles... and I think... that maybe... just maybe...

I'm okay.

**Thanks for reading; I'd love to hear what you think! I'll probably write mostly from Will's POV but let me know if you'd like to read any more from Emma's! **_**:)**_


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